The Last Heroes
by Skye Feyden
Summary: A tale of friendship and grief on the Italian front of World War I. What happens when five young friends are sent to fight?
1. PART ONE: 1917

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Author's Note: This is a story about World War I and the Italian front. Call me a fool, but Hemingway's _A Farewell to Arms_ (which I absolutely HATED, LOATHED, something to that effect) made me feel like writing my own. And with the newsies, this could be interesting, I think. _The Last Heroes_ is a tale about war and grief, but more than that, it is a story of friendship and brotherly love. I beg forgiveness for any historical inaccuracies because I am learning as I go along, and I will correct things as I learn more and post more. Also remember, the strike … yeah, never happened, for my purposes. Ages just wouldn't work out the right way.

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Skittery, Daniel (Snitch), Anthony (Racetrack), Tommy (Mush) and Blink are not mine. If they were, things other than writing would occupy my free time (just take a guess, I dare you). However, Frisco, Link, and Giovanni are my own and I love them very much. If you'd ever like to use them, just ask, I don't have a problem with that stuff, and I can probably give you some more background and all that happy crap. Rating for language and situations, as well as descriptions of violence. Read and enjoy, and reviews _most_ welcome.

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The Last Heroes

PART ONE: 1917

ONE: Before the Front Lines

IT HAD BEEN RAINING FOR A WEEK IN OUR TRENCHES WHEN WE GOT THE ORDERS TO GO TO ITALY. ANTHONY, known to his closest childhood companions as the ever- infamous Racetrack, was thrilled at the chance to leave muddy France and visit the warm, clean-hearted country of his ancestors. Myself, I was simply glad to leave the nightmare that had been the Somme and the filthy awful trenches.

Italy, the wonder of wonders. It was warm, it was beautiful, and it was, for a few blessed weeks, peaceful. There were five of us, five war brothers banded together. Myself (Skittery, some called me, afraid of loud noises and now the devastating explosions); my best friend Daniel (Snitch, as I had called him since I could remember, him having always been the one who cracked under pressure or under the heavy stare of either of our mothers); Anthony, of course, the under-age gambling extraordinaire (nick-named Racetrack for obvious reasons); Tommy (or Mush, as we liked to call him, because his golden heart was so soft and gentle); and our one-eyed friend named Kid-Blink. 

Those were our originals, of course, but we picked up other brothers as we went along, as all soldiers do. There was Frisco, the dark-haired, green-eyed kid from (where else?) San Francisco. I think his real name was Frank, or something like that, but because of our good-natured mockery, everyone had a war-name specific to them. We had Link, too, the pretty blond-haired, blue-eyed boy sent as the third child from his wealthy New England family. He was the most innocent of us, a true virgin to war (and maybe to woman as well, I haven't ever asked), but he was also perhaps the strongest of us. His morals were so strong, his principles so solid, his priorities so clear that every battle was, as he told us, a valiant test of his will and his heart. Then there was our lovely Italian friend, named Giovanni, whom we sometimes called Gigi when we either wanted to see his temper rise or when we wanted to express a very intimate affection. Giovanni was older than the rest of us by about three or four years, I think, although in war such a thing makes no difference. He was perhaps twenty or twenty-one, and good-looking with all the stereotypical dark Italian features. Once he had been wounded in the leg but as all the semi-competent soldiers are, he was put back on the front infantry lines to serve in this God-awful war. But Giovanni was hopeful, and mightily cheerful even on the darkest of days.

The war front was strangely beautiful, a lush gold and green land filled with warm sun, cool breezes, and cold clear blue water. For two or three days upon arrival, we waited for orders, gallivanting from little town to little town, eating good cheese and drinking sweet wine. I drove with Snitch and Frisco everyday from our temporary villa to the post, awaiting the installment of an officer for our new brigade. That summer we did much work with supplies and built housing to secure the front. At night, I listened to the call of the cicadas with Snitch, Frisco, and our newly-found Giovanni while Mush, Blink, Link, and Racetrack stayed in the room beside us on the second floor.

Oh, the villa was beautiful. That was what Italians called their homes, villas. A more suitable name I could not have invented; it was pink and tan and warmed in the sun. Behind it stood a table with yellow paint, and there was a little blue pond nearby where we swam when the afternoons got hot. Frisco more than anybody loved the water, but this was war, and day by day the front seemed to get dirtier and dirtier, ready to break into chaos at any given moment.

But it was not to be, and we were soon delivered into the hands of a bloody conflict we had barely agreed to fight in the first place. We found ourselves back on the front lines. 

Now, let me tell you something about the warfare tactics used to blow the enemy to smithereens. There is nothing valiant or noble about them, nothing true or sweet or gracious. Anything else would have been preferable than laying face-down in a bombed-out field suddenly slippery with the blood of your countrymen, your shoulder broken from the kick-back of your rifle when it mercilessly slammed into your body. Pretending to be dead is not easy when you are shaking and sick, ready to retch from fear. Even our protection, the filthy trenches, is not welcome. Little food, little water, mass amounts of wine and death … the sum total of the situation does not add up to success.

And for what cause was this war being fought?

For that matter, who wants to fight any war? What principles can be places on Justice's golden scales and come out with the same weight as a human life? Everyone here was someone else's son, or brother, or husband, or father. Or friend. I could not imagine losing my own friends. No, not ever them. It was the same with the enemy … it is somehow always the same with them. They believe in their reasons and their principles, too, so who exactly was correct? Even more than that, who defined the standards of righteousness and those things wrongful, too?

Oh well, it was too late anyway. I spent my days next to those God-awful trenches and my nights in the cozy cot of my villa. Letters arrived, letters from friends and family back home. Jack Kelly wrote, and Spot Conlon swore endlessly to Racetrack that he was coming here to fight as well. Collectively, we listed for him all the pros and cons of serving in the army, and it seemed that the total of the pros numbered just four (maybe three, since two of them were all but identical) while the cons kept going at two-hundred forty-seven. Still he promised.

Itey Etole wrote, too, asking us about Italy, his homeland. Had it not been so torn by this chaotic war, I would have honestly stayed forever, but because I could only associate this beautiful town with destruction and death, I answered that I liked it well enough because the land was so pretty. _Tell me, Michael,_ he wrote in my letters, _tell me of my childhood's home. Is it well?_

Yes, Itey, I would reply. _All is well. The outbreak of war is controlled. I hope it will be over soon. I do not like fighting_.

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Oh, Michael, he would say, _Be careful, and is it so very terrible?_

Indeed it is, but do not fear, we are safe, I always dismissed.

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Oh, Michael, Itey was always so sympathetic. _Come home soon. Love from home. We miss you boys greatly. Please come home soon._

These letters I filed away in my pocket inside of my uniform. After a while, they became all I had left of my home.


	2. TWO: War Brothers

Here is my second chapter, which hopefully loses the remnants of Hemingway-like style because I always thought that guy was crap. _Gryffin, thanks a ton for the review; as always it was much appreciated. Love you bunches!_

If ever you see a historical inaccuracy, just let me know, and I'll try my best to fix whatever's wrong. Thanks and enjoy! 

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The Last Heroes

Part One: 1917

TWO: War Brothers

"Great day, ain't it?"

I grinned at Frisco, dirt smeared and caked dryly on my cheeks. He grinned back.

"Not bad," he agreed, glancing around as if to confirm an otherwise hesitant answer. "Could be worse, I think."

A huge explosion rocked the low-dug ditch in which we sat. The shady little tree Frisco had been hiding behind suddenly fell over.

He scrambled from behind the tree and sprawled out into the ditch beside me. "Not bad?" I questioned skeptically, my grin only grown wider. "Could be worse?"

"We're not dead, at least," he agreed after a moment.

"Yet."

"What?"

"Not dead _yet_."

He grumbled.

I could see Snitch across the field sitting in the tall grass with Giovanni and Link. He raised a single finger to his lips, motioning for us to remain quiet. Squinting out over the field, I could see German soldiers running low to the ground, equipment packs adding size to their backs. Silently, I raised my weapon and fitted it against a sore shoulder, taking aim through the scope, but Frisco pushed it gently away.

"German bastards," he swore quietly. "Let me have them, Skittery."

I lowered the rifle and he smiled. "It's about time," he said earnestly, still smiling. "Let me have the Germans. I hate those Germans."

"I wasn't going to invite them for dinner, Fris." I told him dryly. "I was going to shoot them."

He put the rifle butt to his shoulder and closed one eye, squinting through the other, as he looked through the scope. "S'okay, Skitts, I got these two. Gonna splatter them all over Italy for us. All over this damned country."

"Stop talking like that."

"Like what? About splattering them everywhere?"

"No, about damning Italy."

He smiled.

"One two and that's the end'a them," he said, once again lining up his friend of vision in the scope. "Goddamn Germans," he swore again. "I don't like them bastards."

"I guess not." I watched the soldiers come nearer now, unaware of any enemy presence at all. "Come on," I said, hunkering down into the ditch. "Take the shot, take it now."

"Lemme enjoy this," he said in his easy way. Snitch, Link, and Giovanni had disappeared completely with the approach of the Germans and I suddenly felt more alone and afraid, too. "That trigger feels so satisfying to my touch --"

"Take the damn shot!" I cried, reaching over to hit the trigger and two loud bangs rang out, scattering the birds from the nearby trees. Then there was silence and we sat still. I had never touched the rifle. The Germans had disappeared.

"Two," Frisco finally said after a long pause. "Bang, bang, and that's all she wrote."

"Good shot." I nodded, my heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm. "Yeah, Fris, real good shot."

He laid the rifle on the ground and closed his eyes as if the effort had exhausted him. There was silence again and I waited to see if there were any more Germans coming to the aid of their fallen comrades. For my part, I wanted those bodies, wanted the money and badges and awards found in the uniform pockets. The identifications I would leave, but everything else was fair game, especially since it was all German property. But they had been Frisco's shot and therefore he had first pick.

"Hear anything?" he asked into the silence.

I paused. "No." Then I watched Snitch reappear, signaling to me that all was clear. As always, they sent out Link to test the waters. He ran out and waited anxiously hear gunfire. There was none.

"Come on," I nudged Frisco and we crawled out of the ditch. Eagerly he shed his pack and dropped beside the body.

"Well, look at this," he said after a moment of rummaging through the man's pockets. "I winced only the slightest bit at the sight of the torn, bloody chest. He held up two-thousand lire, a generous sum of money. Very generous. "Bet he's got the papers of scores of fallen Italians."

Giovanni took the money, holding it as if it might explode at any moment. We all spoke Italian around him because it was much more beautiful than English and much easier on Giovanni.

"What's wrong, Gigi?" I asked gently, my hand on his wrist.

He watched as Frisco pulled a stack of crumpled, torn papers from the inside coat pocket of the German's uniform. With gentle hands he turned them over and slowly leafed through a few random pages. I could see signatures and pictures of smiling Italian soldiers.

"German bastards," Giovanni swore. "Filth of the earth! To take money is alright, but to take the papers and lose them forever? That I cannot forgive."

"Here, Giovanni," Frisco said. Snitch came to stand behind me and he put a hand on my shoulder. I put mine on top of it and we watched silently as Giovanni took the papers. "They were your countrymen. Better you should present them to our lieutenant."

Giovanni nodded. He looked through them, quietly, and seemed particularly affected by one yellowed, wrinkled page.

"Gigi?" I asked.

"He was my schoolmate when I was younger," he said and for an instant he put the back of his hand to his lips. Then he shifted his weight and tore his eyes from the papers. He tucked them away into his pocket.

"We should start back for camp. Race will be glad to see us." Link said.

"There'll be reports to file about these Germans, so far into Italy." I looked into my friend's blue eyes. "Doesn't it make you curious why they weren't shot down before they reached us?"

"Things are bad," Giovanni said with a sigh. "I do not think the Motherland fares well."

"Don't worry," Snitch said, "Germany cannot be that far ahead."

I looked up at the sky. The blue was fading into a sparkling silver evening.

"Come on," I said. "We should be getting back soon."

Frisco kicked hard at one of the bodies. I heard iron-toed boot connect with bone and I flinched just a little. He did not like Germans. I did not like Germans. No body liked Germans except for other Germans and what did that say about their filthy nation?

"Stupid bastard," he swore, then followed us.

I sat at the writing desk, Snitch reclined lazily on the couch against the opposite wall. He shut his eyes and leaned back.

"Who're you writing to?" he asked after a comfortable moment in which the only sound was the half-used pen scratching at the paper.

"My mum," I answered, pausing slightly in my work. "And there's a note to my father as well."

"Jack and David wrote me just the other day," he said. "And Spot wrote to Race."

I could hear laughter from the rooms upstairs and the stomping of boots. Gunfire sounded far in the distance.

"And Tommy?" I asked. "He seems so lonely, Mush does."

"Tommy's fine," he assured me. "That's his manner, to be self-sufficient. Besides, Itey writes to him. Itey writes to everyone."

"I know, I know," I sighed. It always seemed that I was too tired to carry on a full conversation. "They miss us. We should go back."

"Not before the enemy is fallen completely," Snitch shook his head. "We must fight, and be valiant."

"Valiant?"

"Yes, valiant. We must be the glorious heroes for our friends, the loyal protectors of freedom. The tide of evil must be kept at bay." Then he laughed at his own words. "Listen to me. It seems I've become a poet, now, too, as well as a soldier.

"Always did have a thing for words, Snitch," I told him honestly. "There was no written mark quite as powerful as yours."

"And now no gunshot."

I sighed. "Yes," I agreed finally. "This fighting makes animals of us all."

"Pah," he opened his eyes and simulated spitting. "Animal, yourself, Skitts. Don't be calling me one of those things."

"You're telling me you're on a higher level than the rest of us?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you." Contented with his good-natured teasing, he leaned back onto the couch and closed his eyes, only to open them again when I said, "Well, Mr. Superiority, you might want to clean that dirt from your cheeks before you parade around, high and mighty as you are, or claim to be."

He blushed.

"Tell you what, Skitts," he said. His voice dropped an octave as he mellowed out, taking on a pleasant roughness which gave him a smoothly honest tone. "I might've been able to write a good word or two, but no one can mock like you can."

I smiled gently. "All in good fun," I assured him. "I would not be so merciless and be serious to my good brother and my trench companion."

He returned the smile. "Well, Skitts, I think that about it for me. I'll leave you to your work, and get ready for bed. See you in the morning, Skitts. You're my pal, you know that?"

"Of course I do, Snitch." I stood to embrace him. With war looming right outside of our very door, who knew what might happen? I kissed his cheek. "Good night, old pal. I'll be up in just a little while."

He smiled gently as he left the room, his footsteps trailing off until there was no sound at all except for the occasional gunshot in the far distance.

I sat down again and paused above the paper, pencil in hand. It was late summer and the days were long, so I knew it was late, but the sun had only just faded, and light flickered onto the desk from a few ratty candles I had lit.

"_Give James and Maddy all my love_," I had written of my younger brother and sister. Then I continued, "_Please send money when you can. Food is expensive now. Thank you, Momma, and I love you so much. Your son, Michael_."

It seemed a good end and I scribbled my name and rank below my signature. After I folded the letter, and sealed the envelope, I addressed it and put it on the entrance hutch so that I would remember to take it with me and drop it in the post next time I went. I did not even take my boots off as I went upstairs to wash my face.

Racetrack, Link, Giovanni, Blink, Tommy, and Frisco were all seated against the walls in the hallway. They were muddy and tired, but when I smiled at them, I could not have been more pleased and proud at the smiles they each returned.

"Talk with us?" Racetrack invited tentatively and I nodded and sat, slumping back against the sturdy support. It felt good on my tired muscles.

"Only for a few minutes, guys," I told them. "Then it's off to bed for me."

"And us, too," Giovanni agreed instantly. "Have to conserve energy to fight for the Motherland."

"Ain't my Motherland," Frisco said. "We're Americans, except for you."

"But you fight the same as I do." Giovanni smiled.

Tommy laughed. He had an innately sweet nature, like Link, and it showed in his voice. "Oh, point well made, Gigi! What have you got to say now, Fris?"

Frisco shrugged. "True, true, but I get to go home after this," he smiled wryly. "Between America and this, I choose America."

Blink grinned. "Can't wait to see New York again," he said. "I'm gonna buy a new suit and go see a show someplace."

"Think if we wear our uniforms in the streets people well wave and cheer?" Link asked. His eyes were so bright they sparkled even in the dark.

"Civilians never like soldiers," Race said. I could see the hand-rolled cigars in his pocket.

"Gimme a light, Race?" As I exhaled he lit the end of it and I inhaled quickly to keep it lit. "All I know is, when I get home, I'm gonna put this uniform back on and take my momma out to a nice dinner."

Giovanni smiled. "Women always hope for a son like that, a big fine boy to take care of them. Sounds like you make her proud."

"She tells me that, anyway." I took another drag on the cigar. It tasted and smelled sweet and I felt instantly relaxed. "I try the best I can."

Frisco reached out for the cigar and I gave it to him. "How about you guys, what're you gonna do when you get home?"

"I'm gonna eat a big American meal and treat myself to some ice cream," Tommy said. He was an orphan and lived alone in a tiny Manhattan apartment, visited mostly by friends but no family. "And I'll sleep a full night and all through the next day."

"Home is New York for you?" Giovanni asked him.

"Home for all of us," Tommy gestured around to us. "We grew up together."

"My childhood friends, they've been sent all over the Motherland," Giovanni said sadly. "I have not seen them for a long time, and I do not know if I will ever see them again."

"Of course you will," Link smiled. He had such a child-like appearance and optimism. "Keep faith. Perhaps this war'll be over soon."

"We can hope," Giovanni said, the smiled. "But now I have my war brothers, and it is time for bed."

"Yes, yes," everyone murmured in agreement. We all rose and exchanged closings, embraces, kisses.

"Goodnight, Tommy," I said at last. In the bathroom my toothbrush was waiting on the back of the sink and I scrubbed, thinking that soon enough we would be taken out of scouting and placed on the very front, to fight or die. The thought did not bring much comfort.

The light was already out because Snitch had just gone to sleep but I made my way to my little cot and laid down without even removing my boots. It was a small room, and I could hear the tense breathing of Frisco and the slight movement of Giovanni as he rolled over.

"Goodnight, old friends," I whispered. Even though they were not old friends, they felt like it to me, and besides, we could not be much closer than we were now.

"Sleep well, Michael," Frisco said. Giovanni added, "Good dreams, and we fight in the morning."

"Yes," I said, and I meant to continue with another thought but the words left my mouth half-formed and then I was already asleep.


End file.
